


Story of the Century

by Romanumeternal



Series: Random stories from the People's Republic of Rome [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Non-Sexual Slavery, Organized Crime, Slavery, White Collar Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2019-11-14 15:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18055052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romanumeternal/pseuds/Romanumeternal
Summary: It's a quiet day in the capital of the People's Republic of Rome, and Flavia is struggling with her latest article for the slave magazine Loyalty. There's some very good wine in it for her, after all.Unfortunately, fate has other plans.





	1. A meeting in a Cafe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mossgreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossgreen/gifts).



I winced as I felt a ball of screwed up paper hit my forehead, and looked up. My owner was standing right in front of me, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement. 

"Yes, domina?" I asked, warily. 

"You were miles away" drawled Phoebe. "I said, 'get ready'."

I blinked. I honestly hadn't heard her; I've never been one for pointless acts of disobedience. I looked down at my notes, and yawned, stretching my arms.

"Get ready for what, domina?"

"Going outside" replied Phoebe, with a smirk, in that maddening way she has. She walked over and perched on the edge of my desk. "Besides, you need a break. You've been working on that for hours."

'That' was my latest offering to Loyalty, and truth be told, it had been hard going, and I had the feeling it would never be one of my better articles, no matter how much I worked on it or how many revisions I went through. I nodded, with feeling.

"Yes, domina". I looked down at the scattered papers; typewritten script underlined, crossed out, written over with my blue handwriting. "It's just...he's not an interesting person, I guess." I paused. "Well, certainly not to the average reader."

That was probably harsh to Gallius, who'd seemed, on paper, to be the ideal interview subject. He was a slave, owned by some very rich business magnate in Hispania. Gallius ran his winery, which may not sound special, until I say the vinery he ran was Rubrum Gloria.

Yes, that Rubrum Gloria. One of the largest wineries in Hispania - or indeed, the entire Republic - producing some of the most expensive and well known wines in the world . Gallius, he'd told me, managed a team of five hundred slaves and one hundred free men, over fifteen different sites totalling more than 30,000 acres , together producing over a billion denari in turnover each year...you can see why I almost jumped for joy when both he and his owner accepted.

(Sadly, and despite considerable persuasive efforts from my both Phoebe and myself, Loyalty had refused to send us there to interview him. The offer, though, was still open, and I knew Phoebe had been looking at hotels in the area...)

The problem was, though, he was just not that interesting. He'd reeled off a list of statistics and figures, which were no doubt impressive - but probably not that relevant to the half literate women who make up most of our readership. Even after putting in the usual boilerplate I always do (the part where the slave thanks his owners and urges other slaves to be obedient - whether or not they actually said it) I was struggling to make it interesting to our readers. To them, I knew, he'd seem more or less as another rich and powerful man himself, a slave only legally - which I guess, to be fair to them, he was. Certainly, from what I understood, he was almost as much a business partner of his dominus than a slave. Considering our average reader is only half literate, does fairly basic menial work and is, if I'm honest, treated more like a labour saving device than a person, 

Phoebe sniffed. "Well, you'd better make it interesting, and get it published. Didn't he say there was an amphora of wine in it for you if you do?"

I nodded, suppressing a smile. Trust my domina to remember that detail. 

"Yes domina. For me" I added, slightly cheekily. Phoebe snorted, and cuffed me idly around the back of the head.

"I own you, so I own anything you get" she said, grinning. "Besides, if you really think I'd let some cheeky, lazy, misleadingly named slave keep a whole amphora of Rubrum Gloria, you've got another thing coming." She leaned forward, and plucked the pen out of my hands. "Right, get on with it."

I looked Phoebe over as I stood up. She was dressed respectably - a cream, slightly pleated stola, secured by silver clasps over each shoulder, that reached down to her ankles, with a bottle green palla wrapped around her. A silver necklace and bracelets, and dark blue sandles completed the outfit.

I looked at her hair. She had it loose, secured only with a silver headband. 

"Do you want me to adjust your hair, domina?" Normally, when the bottle green palla came out, she was going to the sort of function where a more ornate hairdo was needed.

She shrugged. "No. I want to look good, not like a Senator's wife.." she said. She frowned . "That might actually be a bad idea in this case." She snapped her fingers. "Just get yourself sorted."

My status, of course, meant I wasn't entitled to a palla. I looked outside, the weather was fine enough.

"The blue tunica?" I suggested. Phoebe grinned. She'd purchased it for me, after all, and I knew she liked me in it.

"Read my mind" she murmured, as I went into my room. Shrugging off the normal grey one I wore, I pulled on the blue one, before brushing my red hair and arranging it in a tight bun. I looked myself over, and, frowning, selected a bronze collar - one of the few types of jewellery is is socially acceptable for slaves to wear. I looked myself over in the mirror, and I nodded. Simply dressed, so as to not to overshadow my domina. Respectable, to show my domina doesn't have a household of sluts with low morals (and also, to avoid men from automatically assuming I'm up for anything - not that that stops a lot). Clean and decently dressed, showing my domina is a severe but kind owner and has the wealth to maintain slaves appropriately. And the bronze collar, of course, was a gift from my free sister. 

For a moment, my lips quirked. My domina would never (or, rather, rarely) instruct me what to wear, but at the end of the day, I still had little choice; what I wore dictated entirely by my status and the need to please my domina. Still, I reflected, at least I was allowed some decisions of my own. And at least my clothing was clean, actually covered me and kept me warm.

"Flavia?"

"Coming, domina."

*************

Thirty minutes and two tram journeys later, we were sitting in an unremarkable cafe on the edge of an ordinary park in a non-descripte corner of Rome. Scholar's Park, as I recall. A misnomer, if I'm honest, but when I got back I did a bit of research. Back during the reign of Carolus the Exalted, apparently visiting scholars would congregate around the area. In time, of course, the academic centre of gravity shifted to the Vaticanus when Carolus formally established the Imperial Symposia there. Now, there were no more scholars in the park, but the name had stuck.

As there were no free people sitting, I'd sat down with my domina, although sadly this temporary equality hadn't extended to buying me a cup of coffee - though, that said, judging by the eye-watering prices charged, I couldn't entirely blame my domina for that. 

We'd been sitting in the cafe for perhaps thirty minutes, before I plucked up my courage to ask:

"Domina" I asked. "What exactly are we doing here?"

My domina raised her eyebrows, and smiled tolerantly.

"Are you questioning me, slave? In public?"

I'd glanced around before I spoke, of course, so no one would overhear a slave questioning their owner.

"I'm just..." I tailed off. "This doesn't seem like your sort of place, domina."

"I love coffee" retorted Phoebe, taking a sip. 

"Yes. Either right in the centre of Rome, or made by me. But...why here?" Frankly, I was a little offended. I like to think I make the best coffee my Domina has ever tasted

I'd never been to Scholar's Park before. A small, open grassy area, lined with iron railings, and surrounded by tall, blocky apartments - from the Hallartic Era, unless I missed my guess. Inhabited, I reckoned, by quietly respectable people - lawyers, tutors, doctors, and the like. Cheaper than anywhere closer to the Forum and, if you had the money, not a bad place to live. Close enough to benefit from being perhaps forty minutes to the centre of the Eternal City, far enough that the noise and busyness of the city itself. But despite how nice it no doubt was, I couldn't see why my domina would pick a random cafe here, miles from the centre of Rome. To the best of my knowledge, she had no friends, no contacts, no interest in this unremarkable corner of Rome.

She glanced out of the window.

"Because I want a coffee here. Honestly, you're very inquisitive for a slave." She cracked a grin. "It's almost as ifyou write for a magazine, or something."

I looked at her, steadily, sipping my water. 

"I-"

Two men entered the cafe, and instantly my domina's attention was switched from me.

They were unremarkable, if I'm honest, both of them. One was perhaps in his fifties, his hair a dull, iron grey, his face lined. He looked around, coldly, an expression of slight disapproval on his face. He was dressed formally - a black, stiff collared tunic, black trousers, a light, white chlamys draped over him, secured with a silver pin. Behind him was a younger man, perhaps in his thirties - a round, pleasant faced man. He was dressed rather more simply than the other man; in a simple tunic that reached down to his knees, and carrying a leather satchel. A slave of the other man, I surmised.

The older man looked at us. I felt Phoebe's eyes on me, and I quietly stood up as the man approached.

"Citizen Vestina?" he asked, quietly - and, I noticed, with a trace of uncertainty.

Regally, my domina inclined my head.

"Your Excellency, Senator Callarius " she said

I felt my eyes go wide. A Senator! What in Hades was Phoebe up to? She wasn't a journalist, or a political writer. Indeed, I knew she stayed away from politics for a reason. Of course, this was Rome, she knew people who moved in the same circles as the great and the good of the People's Republic, but she preferred writing her articles on rather less controversial subjects. 

The Senator glanced behind him. "My secretary, Claudilo" he said. Flavia gave me the same sort of dismissive, fleeting glance.

"My - ah, I don't know. Flavia"

The Senator raised his eyebrows. "'Blondie?'".

Phoebe chuckled and looked at me, winking. 

"Blame a slave trader who thought a blonde would sell for more, sir". Phoebe always found that story hilarious; me rather less so. The slave trader's cheap dye job had faded after a week or so, however the name Flavia had stuck. 

"Huh" said the Senator, evidently unsure what to make of that information. "I know some do dye the hair." He looked at me, though without much interest, and then indicated the seat. 

"May I sit?"

"Of course, sir. And if you wish it so might your slave."

"I would prefer if this conversation was not overheard" he said, with a significant glance at yours truly.

"So would I, sir" said Phobe, quietly. "I read your letter. It sounds...interesting. But Flavia's loyal." She smiled affectionately. "And, frankly, smart enough to find out eventually."

The Senator looked as though he'd swallowed a wasp, but after a moment, relented.

"Then the slaves might as well sit" he said. "I trust Claudilo as well, mostly. Claudilo, the satchel."

The man placed it on the table, and then withdrew a single, thin paper folder, placing it on the table. Phoebe regarded it for a moment, and then spoke.

"Your Excellency, might I be frank?"

The Senator nodded.

"I'm a writer, not a journalist. I'm not sure what you have in mind. But if this is some scheme to leak some news, or-"

"It's not" said the Senator, interrupting. Phoebe bit her lip at that, but managed to hold back her doubtless pithy reaction. "I wrote that letter to you because I know you're an expert on servile law."

"You said as much. But I wouldn't say expert. If it's legal advice-"

"It'd go to a lawyer. Indeed, I have already have done. Believe me, and with no offence, you are not my first choice. But..." he cocked his head, and smiled. "You have abolitionist sympathies, do you not?"

There was a pause, and then Phoebe smiled tightly. It was, I knew, an accusation that had dogged her for a while. 

"Hardly, sir. I own a slave, I write occasionally for a magazine for them. I was radical in my youth, to be sure. But one has to accept reality.  But if by abolitionist you just mean someone who believes in fairer, kinder treatment, and that the powerful should not be able to do what they will to those weaker than them, then yes, I guess I am." She paused. "It is why I write for Loyalty. They need a source of helpful advice, a bit of encouragement, and who knows, maybe some amusement too."

"I believe my household reads it" smiled the Senator. "And peace. I meant no offence. I understand that no doubt our political sympathies are somewhat different."

"You're a hardline Romulust." Phoebe smirked. "I'm not the only one who has contacts, sir. I looked you up the moment I got your letter. Whilst I'm...not." She paused. "But let's not talk politics. No doubt you think its unseemly that a woman even considers some things."

"You'd be wrong" snapped the Senator. "My wife...she was interested, and I encouraged it." His gaze flickered, for a moment, before returning to my Domina. "But I agree. We are not here to debate. But you are a radical, tender hearted when it comes to slaves, and, if I might be blunt, relatively unknown outside of a small circle of writers."

"'Tender hearted', sir?"

The Senator, ignoring the question with the ease of a true politician, tapped the file in front of him. "I will be honest. I'm...nervous, about what is inside that. In it, a slave alleges she's been illegally enslaved."

"What, kidnapped?" Phoebe frowned, as well she might. That was a matter for the Vigilium.

"No. She was enslaved according to the law of the People's Republic. By a Praetor, no less, but based on false - indeed, entirely manufactured - evidence."

"Jupiter Optimus Max".

"Oh, it get worse. She alleges that her family was enslaved by this Praetor as a favour to his patron; and she ended up in this patron's household . A very wealthy, very clever, very respected man. According to her, her family was enslaved because they'd found out something about this man. He is, to read her letter, frankly a monster of the worst sort, heading...well, sheis vague on the details. But some sort of fraud, some sort of conspiracy." He shook his head. "The letter itself is...not entirely convincing. It's long, rambling, near incoherent in places, makes the wildest speculations, indulges in the strangest guesswork. It is a strange mixture of accusations, pleading and outright rant. The man she accuses is well thought of, influential. Normally I'd dismiss it out of hand."

Claudilo said nothing, but I got the impression from a fleeting expression on his face that indeed, his dominus, had dismissed it outright, and he'd convinced him otherwise. Obviously, there was more to Claudilo than an attractive errand boy.

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. "Influential enough, I guess, that if you used your normal channels to verify what this woman says, there's a chance he would get to hear of it." She paused. "And hence why you need an outsider. And one known to be 'tender hearted'. Because - oh, you bastard." 

The Senator just smiled and Phoebe shook her head ruefully. "He's a rich and influential man. No doubt you worry that I'd be tempted to inform him of your interest...but that would mean revealing your informant and exposing her to who knows what punishment for writing to you in the first place."

"Exactly. You are a writer, who writes on a variety of subjects - your inquiries would be barely noticed, just a woman doing her job. You also have the knowledge of servile law to see if my informant's main allegation has any value." He looked around. "Honestly, my limited enquiries have not been as conclusive as I might have liked. Meaning I can't prove she's lying. Everything I've so far checked in that letter has turned out to be true."

"Who is it she accuses?" Phoebe asked.

"Are you interested?"asked the Senator. 

I hid a grin. It was obvious to all but the blind (or, possibly, a man) that Phoebe was not so much interested as hooked. She's insatiably curious, and, despite her denials, has I know never quite lost her youthful idealism.

To tell you the truth, I was interested. Illegal conspiracies? Corruption in high places? It would certainly make a change, I reflected.

"I am" said Phoebe. "There is however the question of payment. I may be idealistic, but I need to eat, and my slave does too."

"Understood" said the Senator. "I was thinking five thousand denarii. For what should only be a few hours work. Simply your evaluation of this letter, and your suggestions as to how truthful it is."

I sniffed. That was a good sum indeed. Whoever this Senator was, he was obviously serious. Or, more likely, I reflected, unaware of just how much freelance writers generally earned. 

"Done" said Phoebe, not even bothering to haggle. She looked at the file, and then, unbidden, leaned forward and clasped the Senator's hand. He raised his eyebrows, and I couldn't say I blamed him. Hardline conservatives like him probably didn't think much of woman acting as a man might in matters of business.

"It goes without saying, sir, that neither myself nor my slave will breath a word of this to anyone. On this you have my oath."

The Senator nodded. 

"Thank you. I pray all it is is some deluded rambling, but-" he paused, and then continued. "But if its not, we have a problem in Belgica."

 

 


	2. A slight argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe is determined to Do Something. Flavia is concerned that this would be a Bad Idea, but it is surprisingly hard to argue with someone when they technically own you.

My domina, I noticed, clutched the file to her, as though her life depended on it, all the way back to her apartment. It was only once we were inside that she stopped looking so  nervous, and only once she'd placed the file inside her safe that she seemed to unwind- and even then, only by a small amount. . 

It was, I guess, at that point I started to get an inkling of just what Phoebe had volunteered herself - and by extension, me - for. It was troubling, to say the least. Her slightly distant expression told me that she was, perhaps, having second thoughts herself.

"Domina?" I asked. 

"Get me some water and olives, girl" she said, sitting down at her desk, drumming her hands on the wood. It was an ornately Subrekian affair, in wood so dark it was almost black, cunningly worked such that the legs resembled thickets of leaves; and the knobs on the drawers birds. 

I did as I was bid, returning quickly afterwards. She picked at the bowl of olives, her expression still distant.

"So, girl" she said, after a while. "What did you think of that little outing?"

I blinked, unsure how to answer, and to give myself some thinking time, I knelt down and removed my domina's sandals. 

"Think, domina?" I said, slowly. I shook my head. "In all honesty, domina, I'm not sure what to think." I placed her sandals to one side as I stood up. "It sounds...suspicious, to my mind."

Phoebe nodded. "I have no doubt His Excellency hasn't given us the full story. But, try as I might, I can't see what he stands to gain by this, unless he is telling us mostly the truth." She took another olive. "I mean, if he just wanted to leak information, or to spread dirt on a rival, there's easier ways." She looked at me. "The only explanation that makes some sort of sense is what he told us. I'm someone relatively unknown, who has some relevant knowledge, and is hardly likely to go blabbing. And what is inside that file is big enough the Senator is concerned that if he went via more official channels...the man would get to hear of it."

"Jupiter Optimus Max" I muttered. I glanced nervously at the drawer, as though instead of a file it contained some vile, venomous serpent. 

"About sums it up" agreed Phoebe, with a wry smile. "But let's face it, it's a little more interesting than either my piece on Khorosharan business opportunities, or yours on that winery fellow."

I nodded. I could see her point. Most of what we both wrote was cheerful, optimistic verbiage - or else, in my domina's case, serious scholarly works that were of interest, presumably, to other serious, scholarly people (well, everyone has to have a hobby, right? Hers just happens to be articles with lots of footnotes). In a lot of cases, we simply worked from the information the client gave us; other times one of us (usually me) did some research and interviews. It was mildly interesting some of the time, but it was hardly thrilling. Certainly, the pieces I wrote for loyalty I could all but compose in my sleep. 

On the other hand, I quite liked 'mildly interesting', and disliked 'thrilling', which is only a few steps away from 'terrifying'.  
And this, I thought, had the potential to go to 'terrifying', really quite fast. 

I picked my words carefully. Phoebe had given her oath to a Senator, and she took promises like that seriously.

"Domina" I asked "are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"

She glanced at me.

"What?"

"Well, domina, with all due respect, domina...you're not really an investigator". Phoebe looked at me, eyes narrowing slightly. "I mean, domina - you're a writer. An editor." I paused, and then continued.  "You've never done anything remotely like this."

"So you think I shouldn't help, girl?" There was a definite edge to her voice now. "You think I shouldn't help uncover a criminal? Help bring wrongdoing to the light of day?"

I looked around, and then looked my owner, straight in the eye.

"I don't know, domina. I didn't see the letter the Senator sent to you-"

I burnt it" she interrupted.

"I didn't see it. I don't know the Senator, either. But I do know you've never been a researcher or investigator." I managed a weak smile. "That's why you got me, domina. This is-" I gestured at the desk drawer, where the file lurked "it doesn't seem right." I paused. "A thousand respects, domina. I know its not my place; and I honestly intend no offence but - are you sure you're the right person for this?"

That hit her. She tilted her head, glaring at me; a look I'd received from her maybe three times before. It heralded nothing good - in the best case scenario, a properly stinging slap in very short order. She swallowed, stood up, and looked down at me. 

"What makes you think I'm not? You heard him. I know servile law, I have contacts, no one would suspect me, I write so many articles anyway that my enquiries could just be dismissed as research. And frankly I take the opinion of a Senator rather more seriously than that of a slave."

Normally, her tone would have had me begging her forgiveness, but, if truth be told, I was angry - both at the fact she seemed deliberately blind to what I was trying to say, and at her comparison. I bit back my initial response - that actually, she should take the opinion of a woman who'd lived and worked for her for five years damn well more seriously than that of a man with whom she passionately disagreed and had known for at most a week.

I paused, ordering my thoughts. "Let's assume everything you've heard is true. A man is able to corrupt a Praetor - to enslave a family who speaks out against him. He is so influential that a Senator of the People's Republic will not involve any of the authorities, but instead meets in a cafe to hand the job over to a freelance writer." I sighed. "Domina, that   
sounds very much like a man we shouldn't have anything to do with. Domina, you are not the right person for this. And there's no reason to even involve yourself in it!"

Phoebe looked at me coldly. "You forget yourself, girl. I allow you leeway to respectfully question me, but you go beyond that. You don't get to decide what I do. I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do, no matter how dangerous. If no one has the courage to stand up for laws and traditions of our Republic, then we might as well be barbarians." She paused, and then added spitefully. "Mind you, I guess I shouldn't expect a slave to understand a concept like that - although I would expect her to obey her bloody betters!" 

Her mouth dropped open the moment the words left it. Her nostrils flared, and she glanced at the ground, guiltily. I bit my lip, bowed my head, and muttered a sullen "Apologies, domina."

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. It's a common enough conceit, of course - that slaves are naturally cowardly, with no concept of higher principles.  But Phoebe had never mentioned that before; indeed it was a rare day when she treated me more as a slave than, say, an employee or friend. Pulling rank and letting me know exactly what my status compared to hers was was a rare tactic - and, I thought bitterly, needlessly unpleasant. I know I'm her property; and generally she has the decency not to remind me of it.

"I...I didn't mean it like that" said Phoebe, quietly, after a few moments. The closest, I knew, I'd probably get to an spology from her. Eager to get the moment over with, I nodded.

"I know, domina. I forget my place" I added, meekly, submissively. 

She shook her head. "Not really. I've always given you leave to question me. And you're asking the right ones, I guess.  You really think it's a bad idea?"

"Yes domina." I looked at her, seriously. "If you get involved, you may be getting involved with truly vicious men. And I'm not sure you realise just how low some people can sink, not really. Especially if they're greedy, and even more so if they're scared." I gave a twisted smile. "Believe me, domina, I grew up in a servile academy. I know what some men and women are capable of." I did, too, growing up in a morass of ever shifting alliances, backbiting, frenzied competition and desperation to end up with the best possible owner. Slaves generally, I find, have a more cynical - and more realistic - view of human nature than the free. 

She nodded, accepting my point.  "Truth. I've been lucky - rich family, pleasant work, good and civilised friends. Even the split from my husband was amicable, in its way. And supposedly I might be helping build a case against a man who has no compunction about the foulest of crimes to cover his tracks." She took a sip of water. "But then again.."

"Domina?"

"I've had a comfortable life. Maybe Fortuna requires me to repay Her a little? A fanciful notion, I'll grant you, but...if I just sit, and do nothing out of fear, then I'm not sure my ancestors would be proud. I could hardly stand tall when I meet them in Elysium. Generation after generation of the men of my family have died to serve Rome. I guess the least I can do is read a letter."

She said it with finality, a tone in her voice brooking no argument. I hung my head, obediently. I'd given my advice, and my domina had decided. 

"Your will, then domina. But may I request one thing?"

She looked at me, slightly warily. 

"What?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe and Flavia read a letter; and Phoebe realises just what she's up against.

"Your will then, domina. But may I request one thing?"

 

She looked at me, slightly warily.  "What?"

 

I looked her straight in the eye, as a friend might. Not submissively at the floor, as a slave properly should.

 

"Let me help you, Domina. If indeed it is your will that you become involved." It wasn't my will, you can be sure of that, but there is a fine line between debating with your domina and arguing with her. When her mind was set on a purpose, I knew from experience it was hard to change its course.

 

Her lips quirked again, in what could have been a sardonic attempt at a smile.  "Your help, girl, is something I demand, not something a slave can offer." She smiled again, genuinely this time. "But, that said...it pleases me that you offer it of your own will. Although part of me does think you consider me incautious, and wish to ensure that I do not do anything I might regret."

 

I said nothing, and I doubt she could tell much  from my expression. A good journalist knows when to keep a marble tongue in a marble face, as the saying goes - as, for that matter, does a good slave. I like to think I'm both. And, truth be told, Phoebe was not altogether incorrect, and I did not think it wise to let her know that I thought her somewhat sheltered, impulsive and inexperienced on the darker side of human nature, letting her curiosity blind her to what she could be leading us both into. 

 

She looked at me, one eyebrow raised, and then stepped forward, and flicked me hard on the nose; an affectionate gesture of ownership. 

 

"Fine then, Flavia. Keep your secrets." She glanced towards the drawer, in which the file was locked, and then rubbed her hands with relish. "But don't deny you're curious as well, otherwise I will know you for a liar."

 

Well, she had me there, at least.

 

We looked over the letter together.

 

The original was still in the Senator's possession. We had, however, two versions. The first was a series of photographs, of the letter proper, and then three sheets of closely typewritten transcript, no doubt typed up by Claudilo. Phoebe snatched the typescript, whilst I looked at the photos. My first thought was that if it was a hoax, it was cleverly - very cleverly - done. The letter in fact had consisted of several sheets of paper - no two alike. Pages evidently torn from notepads mixed in with crumpled receipts and even envelopes, all closely scrawled over with writing - a cramped, messy hand. The ink colour varied, and, as I peered closer, I could see gouges in the paper, where the pen had run dry and our writer had scraped across the paper. 

 

I blinked. I could imagine, easily, how such a letter would be written. I could imagine her, our unknown letter writer

 

_\- huddled in the dim darkness. Perhaps in a quiet corner. Perhaps early in the morning, or late in the evening, when the light is poor yet she knows she'll be undiscovered, in the house where she serves, the bar where she works, the shop where she slaves. She hasn't got long, I don't think. Had she longer, were she a more favoured slave, she would have time to write more neatly. Perhaps contrive an errand for herself. But no, she's a lower ranking drone - one step above a delictor, maybe, a criminal sentenced to slavery, but not by much. So let's say ten minutes, fifteen - and of course, she cannot concentrate entirely. She must be alert, constantly, for an unexpected intruder. For it will be hard to explain what she's doing to even another drone - much less her supervisor, or her owner - should she be found scribbling.So she mostly composes what she will write during the day in the privacy of her own skull, picking up scraps of paper when she can, before spilling as much of her mind on the paper as she can in the short time she has, frantically scribbling with a discarded, near dry pen, one that her owner's won't miss, or maybe one 'borrowed' and then returned before anyone notices its absence..._

 

 

I shivered slightly, at the images that conjured up - all from a few scraps of paper and a pen. Of course, my rational mind knew, I had just invented a whole story in my mind - a peril for any journalist- without looking at all (or even a vast majority of) the facts first - without, indeed, looking what what she'd actually written. It could, after all, be a hoax by someone who'd actually thought about what a letter written by a frantic, low ranking slavegirl might look like. It could be the product of a deranged mind (free or servile). 

 

But still, if it was a hoax, it was good. And - although, of course, this was entirely subjective - it had the ring of truth about it. The writing was too cramped, the material too scavenged. Looking at the photographs, I could almost sense the panic, the anxiety, the desperation in those untidy scribbles; an urge to get th e words down as quickly as possibly fighting with the desire to make them as clear as possible, to make the whole risk worthwhile. No doubt handwriting like that could be faked - but it would take skill. I am no graphologist, no handwriting expert, but I've read desperate letters from slaves before, sent into _Loyalty_ \- they come, despite our warning that  slaves should only write to us with their owner's permission. And the  miserable ones, the ones desperately hoping we can help somehow ( _how can I stop my child being sold? how can I stop being beaten? I just want to give up, what's worth living for? Oh Gods, how do I pretend to enjoy him in me_?) all have the same look.

 

(What do we do with those letters, Tribune? Well, they are read of course - all of them - by the Vigilium who 'oversee' the magazine. Some are answered in the magazine, names suitably redacted. Some are simply destroyed. I like to think that even the Directorate of Republican Security can tell these are mainly desperate missives by desperate slaves, no threat to their owners or the Republic, and make no attempt to track them down - though I wouldn't altogether rule it out. In which case...I prefer not to think about what happens at that point).

 

I looked across at Phoebe, for a moment, peering intently at the typewritten sheet. She was frowning, a red pen in her mouth, as she read it, and I felt a sudden burst of affection and gratitude. I was warm, and fed, with interesting work and - what's perhaps more important - serving a woman who, notwithstanding the occasional slap, no matter how snappy and demanding and superior and simply irritating she can be, is a kind and decent domina, who'd taken a scared girl into her house and given her a purpose. After all, it could all have been so very, very different...

 

 

She looked across, catching me staring. She sniffed. "Finished already, girl?" she asked, and passed me the letter. I took it, obscurely grateful that on this occasion she had no inkling of my thoughts. I scanned it, smirking a little. Phoebe - probably more out of habit than anything else, had started underlining spelling mistakes with her red pen, before giving up halfway down the second page. I reckoned that these had been in the original letter - it was hard to envisage any Senator's secretary making so many; and likely he'd left them as he'd carefully typed out each letter. More forgivable for a desperate girl, I thought, scribbling in the darkness. 

 

_To His Excellency, Senator Callarius, Senator of the People's Republic of Rome! My name is Jania Lepis Felicia, and I write to you as I know you are a Man of Honour and Integrity and Justice; a True Roman Man who would never succumb to Corruption. Sir, I want you to know that I have been Indecently and Wrongly and Falsely Enslaved by Criminals, men answering to their master, a man named  Typhonius Gracchi Molvani Quint; he is a corrupter, a thief, a fraudster, a man who has all of Belgica under his thumb. No doubt Sir you are aware of Him, he is a Senator much as You are but unlike You he has dragged the honor of his toga through the Mud! He is well known inside Belgica; some call him I know the Patron of Patrons! From his ill gotten gains he has corrupted the whole of Belgica - the Vigilium, Senators, Praetors, Procurators, even the Governor - all come to his house, and he gives them all gifts. In return, I believe, they Overlook his crimes and protect Him. Sir, even if you care nothing for one poor citizen, unjustly Enslaved, I beg you to think of the Republic! Please Sir, take heed of my letter and do not disregard it! Everything in it I swear is True!_

 

 

I let out a low whistle. Phoebe looked at me. "It's intense, isn't it?" she murmured. "And not terribly well written, come to that." I nodded, absently. It was indeed - as you yourself can see - rambling, long winded, the tone verging on the hysterical at times.

 

"Of course domina, if it was real, I doubt it would be well written. It'd be written in haste, she wouldn't have time to finely compose it." I said. I outlined to her what I'd speculated from looking at the photographs of the letter.  

 

Phoebe shrugged, as I finished outlining my theories. "Potentially. I guess in her position I'd be unconcerned about style too. And desperate to be believed." She sniffed. "Of course, a hoaxer or maniac would want to be believed as well."

 

I nodded. She had a point. She waved at me, to carry on reading. "Enough talk, at this point. I want to know what you think."

 

_My Parents attempted to expose his Crimes; they planned to write an Article on his Bank which is no more than a massive Fraud; he simply takes your money and Spends it for himself, then when you ask for payment he simply Steals another Man's money. My Parents knew of This but he quickly got wind of their Purpose. He bribed his henchmen - chief among them a Praetor; indeed the Chief Praetor of Belgica. Honorious Verres Velgrim is his name, and Sir you must believe he is as corrupt and low and degraded as any man living or dead; a man who has Entirely sold his Honour, Duty and his Manhood! For it was Quint's loot that got him appointed, and Quint's loot that makes him rich! He is Quint's dog, his slave, nothing more! No doubt Quint saw an opportunity for the Dog to repay his debt! On the 14th of August, Sir, Vigilium troops arrested my mother, my father, and myself - I was Snatched, sir, as I Returned from my lessons, and placed into a Cell. My Mother and Father were both accused of being runaway slaves; thereby by the Laws of the Republic I was one too. I have since Learned that even if they had been, they had lived as Free Citizens for a decade, and thus were to be considered as such. But Sir, I swear such an accusation is untrue, the foulest of lies! My parents were good Roman Citizens and true! But we were not given even a Hearing! The Dog said that he was satisfied that we were runaways; and we were quickly sold to a Labour Camp! My Mother at least had the Honour to kill herself; before the Guards could use her as they would any common slave; my Father I believe died of despair._

 

 

"Romulus Above" I muttered.

 

I turned to my Domina, who simply looked at me, steadily. "That's-" "Treason" she snapped. "Enslaving a fellow citizen, knowingly or unknowingly; save for the matter of a debt or as punishment for a crime."

 

I cocked my head. "Treason?" Phoebe looked at me scornfully; a look I'm all too familiar with whenever I unintentionally remind her my father (Pluto torment him) was not a legal scholar and jurist of some repute. 

 

"Sparrow-brain slave. Of course it is. Punishable by crucifixion." She smiled, grimly. "I think it was Hallarticus himself who came up with that interpretation. Illegal enslavement counts as treason, and is punished like any other form. Logically shaky, I'll be the first to admit, but it's such a foul crime that really nothing else covers it. And a citizen enslaving another citizens is no better than a citizen who conspires against our Republic, to be sure."

 

I nodded. I hadn't known that, but then Hallarticus' definition of 'treason' was notoriously broad, encompassing everything from 'selling military secrets to the Volkish' to 'seemingly disagreeing with Hallarticus'. Still, I guess I could see the underlying principle, if not the actual flow of logic. But Phoebe, bless her, had only just entered into her lecture.

 

"And our writer is right on one other thing, as well. After ten years of being regarded as a citizen, one is one. Oh, there's all sorts of quibbles one could conceivably raise - who counts as 'regarding', and so forth - but Hades, no Praetor in their right mind would do what this Velgrim has apparently done. You'd need a trial, there's safeguards exactly against this sort of abuse of power!" She looked at me, and I detected the shock in her eyes. "Flavia, if this accusation is true, it's disgusting. We're all Romans, after all - no one has the right to strip any other citizen of his rights without a due trial! No matter how rich or powerful they are. It's the sort of thing they did before the Revolution, maybe, but we're civilised now."

 

 

I looked back down at the paper, hoping my domina couldn't read my expression. She was, of course, repulsed by the idea of a Roman citizen being casually enslaved - such a thing, after all, is only meant to be even contemplated in the strictest circumstances, when a citizen proves to be such a persistent criminal, or their family proves so financially irresponsible, as to no longer merit ranking as such. But the act itself, I noticed, didn't at all concern her. Had I gently pointed out that I was born a slave, for no better reason than my mother was one, her response would have been at best incredulity that I'd raise such an irrelevant fact, and likely a sharp slap for forgetting my place. 

 

 

"I just don't understand how he can get away with it!". She frowned, chewing her pen. "Frankly...oh, I grant you, girl, it looks convincing. But it does strain belief...you'd have to be reckless in the extreme to do it. I just can't imagine a Praetor - Gods know, I know some are doubtless corrupt - being so stupid and sure of himself as to publicly enslave a family, whom are seemingly just citizens, and have been for years."

 

She snorted. "Romulus Above, I know the problem is usually in the other direction - no Praetor wants to run the risk so they let some slaves they are pretty sure are runaways go free. My father used to deal with some of that. An outraged owner yelling that the Vigilium had caught a long lost runaway but he'd ruled they were likely citizens."

 

I looked at my Domina, smiling sourly. "It does sound impossible, Domina, I agree" I said slowly. "You'd have to be insane to try it. Unless..."

 

"Unless what, girl?"

 

I leaned back in my chair. "Well, domina. Imagine all the other Praetors are bribed, as well. Imagine the Governor is. Imagine the Senators, the senior Vigilium officers. Lictors, law clerks, witnessess...imagine everyone, owing a favour, or being persuaded to turn a blind eye, or Hades, being threatened into it. Imagine that this Velgrim knows he can get away with anything. Imagine his master, this Quint, controls all the strings. I have no legal knowledge domina, none whatsoever...but can you explain what would actually stand in their way? A few quiet words, a closed hearing...it wouldn't take much, I reckon, if you knew what you were doing."

 

Phoebe's eyes widened, and I think, for the first time, she had an idea of what we might truly be up against. 

 

"But that'd mean...this Quint, he runs Belgica like his own kingdom!" I nodded.

 

"If this letter is telling anything like the truth, Domina, he is." I paused for a moment, and then asked: "So are you sure you want to carry on with this?"

 

For a moment, she said nothing, simply drumming her fingers on her desk. And then, she sniffed. "Of course I do, girl. Of course I bloody do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Phoebe and Flavia are stolen from Mossgreen. (I think in hers Flavia doesn't belong to Phoebe, for starters...and Phoebe's probably a bit nicer!)


	4. It's amazing what you find in books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe stays up all night, and Flavia discovers some more about the mysterious, and increasingly it seems criminal, Senator Quint.

The following day I got up, as usual, early — it was barely light; the sun's rays just starting to reach over the horizon.

 

My room, as you might expect, is somewhat small — in fact, should I stretch out, I can almost touch all four walls. It's typical slave quarters, you might say, a place to sleep and wash and nothing more. The walls are plainly whitewashed, the window small and glazed, letting in light but no detail. As is also typical with such quarters, I share my room with various household goods (although as Phoebe once tartly and rather unkindly remarked after I suggested that maybe some of these could go somewhere else, that is basically what I am) — the ironing board, mop and bucket, brush, vacuum cleaner, and the washing machine — which my bed is actually set above; rather in the manner of a bunk bed. With that, the sink, and the cupboards containing my belongings, it is tightly cramped, and one wonders vaguely how on earth the landlord claimed you could fit five slaves in here. (Although, that said, I know for a fact you can fit two people in - lying down, at least). 

 

Mind you, I've slept in worse. It's warm, at least, and despite always smelling somewhat musty, clean. And, in the manner of almost all slave quarters in the houses of owners who are not needlessly cruel, I've added my own touch, where I can. The shelves have a couple of books on, as well as a tiny alter to Mercury - a tiny, ceramic figure, cheaply made, which one can buy anywhere, and which is probably my most treasured possession. I may not, after all, be a True Believer, but like most other Romans I see no point in not respecting the Invisible Powers, should they exist - and what better patron can there be for a slave than the Patron of luck, resourcefulness, ambition, persuasion, success and - perhaps - just a little trickery? I worship all of the Powers, of course, but He has always had a special place in my heart. 

I stepped down from the bed, made a swift bow in the direction of the God, quickly grabbed a fresh tunic and, glancing in the mirror, brushed my hair and teeth. I pulled the tunic over myself and, almost automatically, went to the culina, as I did every day. 

 

Personally, although its early, I always quite like this time of day. One feels alone with one's thoughts. As usual, I checked I had all the ingredients for Phoebe's breakfast ready, before setting some water to boil and making myself a mug of instant coffee, whilst I switched on the radio for the bulletin.

 

It was the same as usual. The Vigilium had dragged three bodies out of the Tiber — suspected murder suicide, they were saying, a man discovering his wife was having an affair. Five bombs had gone off in Judaea, injuring three auxiliaries; a spokesman from the Sanhedrin had already denounced the attack. There had been a major vehicle crash on the Via Regium, major delays were expected. The Princeps was making a tour of the Britannic provinces. There had been a bloodless coup in Xulua — Volkish backed, some were speculating — and unemployment was up slightly. 

 

I poured myself a coffee, glancing at the clock. Luckily for me, my owner is a deep sleeper, and so in the early mornings, unless there is shopping to be done, I usually clean the flat, save for her room, and put some laundry on. I wandered into the tablinum and -

 

"Domina?" I asked. She was sitting at her desk, her head resting on the wood — snoring slightly. Around her were piles of papers and magazines; a tower of books on the end of the desk not occupied by the bronze statue of Minerva she likes. I wandered closer, slightly surprised. Phoebe is not an early riser; preferring to sleep until noon and work until midnight. (It's something I tease her about during Saturnalia; not many owners, I think, would be happy to receive their breakfast in the middle of the afternoon). 

 

I glanced down at the papers, and snorted. After reading the letter the previous afternoon, Phoebe had gone on a minor shopping spree, getting magazines, books, journals, newspapers — anything that might give her some information on Quint — leaving me, as it happened, to continue with my article for Loyalty. I was quietly impressed. She'd returned, laden with bags, and throughout the early afternoon men had called with various parcels- old editions, back issues of periodicals, and the like. Box after box had been deposited in the corner, and I'd served what seemed to be endless mugs of dilute, warmed wine. 

 

 By the looks of things she'd been up all night. She'd been engrossed when I retired around the tenth hour, I recalled, simply waving an irritated hand when I requested permission to go to bed. I shook her gently by the shoulder, and she opened her eyes.

 

"Oh, morning girl" she said. "What time is it?"

 

"Five".

 

She blinked. "Gods? In the afternoon! Romulus above, girl, you should have-"

 

"In the morning, domina." 

 

She yawned, and then frowned. "What?".

 

Obviously, I reasoned, her mental faculties were not yet fully working. I grinned. 

 

"I know domina. It's strange. But there's a fifth hour in the morning too. I'm not sure if you've seen it before. "

 

"Girl, don't be smart. I haven't had enough coffee to deal with you yet."

 

I nodded, getting the hint, and quickly returned with a mug of coffee, which she drained in one. She made a face.

 

"Romulus above. Not up to your usual standard."

 

(Like I said, she's not a morning person).

 

"It was going to be mine" I said — my domina, of course, had a pot of very nice coffee I am forbidden, on pain of — well, pain, I guess — to even think about drinking without express permission. Phoebe sniffed.

 

"Oh, Gods. That foul instant stuff you drink." She shook her head. "Right". She looked at her notes. "Where was I? Oh yes. His Excellency Senator Quint." She indicated a pile of books and journals on one side of her desk. "I mean, I didn;t want to let anyone know I'm interested, so that's why I just got what I could buy right now, without digging around in archives. But still...there's enough here."

 

She was becoming more animated, snatching up pieces of paper, shuffling books and magazines this way and that. "There's not a lot on him, really. There's a couple of fairly fawning articles in the Prosperity Journal. Kalliopolis — last year — had an article on banking, which mentioned him, briefly. This guide to the Senate just confirms he's a Senator. I got this book on banking too, this mentions his bank a little bit. Hades, this guidebook to Belgica mentions him as well — though again, all in the positive."

 

"Not a lot to go on, domina" I said.

 

She smirked. "No, there's plenty, you sparrow brain. And I haven't even started on most of the stuff I brought yesterday. Sit down, Flavia. So, I found out when he was born. When he took over his bank — it's been operating for a while. Hades, I didn't really recognize this, but Ultricus used to be a huge financial centre — before the Reunification — and there's still quite a bit there, despite the Volkish bombing it to Hades and back. "

 

She paused, frowning, as she sipped her coffee. She'd done an article on the rebuilding, I remembered, a few years ago. True, Ultricus was never a victim of the sun-bomb - but the Volkish air-fleet reduced it to rubble, all the same. The photos of what was left afterwards haunted my dreams for a while - shattered ruins; a firestorm which raged for days; charred, eerily doll like corpses lined up, almost obscenely neatly.

Then, she was off again, as she regained her train of thought. 

 

"But anyways. Before Quint takes over, this Wealth Holding Partnership was damn small, and very serene. You know, a few dozen big customers — mostly other banks — and some local notables who need somewhere safe and boring to stash their wealth, run by someone they know rather than ultimately some plutocrat in Rome or Antioch or Londinium. But then comes along Quint, who takes over when his uncle dies. And everything changes."

 

She looked around on her desk, and quickly found another piece of paper, covered with her handwriting. "Sorry, I'm only giving you the summary. I got...pretty involved" she admitted, and flashed a crooked smile — the same smile, I think, which eight years ago told me that my new owner might, just, perhaps, not be an utterly vile human being; the same smile that had lit up a freezing, bleak slave-pen and reassured a terrified teenager. 

 

I smiled back. My domina is insatiably curious — and has that rare gift of being interested in most things, to a degree. To the best of my knowledge she'd never before had much interest in banking or Ultricus — but judging from her notes, she'd been enthralled the whole night, discovering a whole new world.

 

"Everything, domina?"

 

"Yes. The bank gets big — and fast. It buys, so far as I can tell, some other similarly small ones. It's all very vague, to tell the truth — most of what I could find simply talks about 'rapid expansion' and leave it at that — but he does it, within five years Quint is pulling in serious money, and his Partnership is getting big. He starts making investments in local business — most of which pay off. Some of the richest men in Belgica apparently have a lot of money with him — and according to them, he multiplies it fast. He's got interests in a lot of other areas as well, almost to the point where it is hard to tell where he's involved and is not involved- runs a big shipping company, for starters, a chain of stores..."

 

Her mouth twisted. "I guess you won't be too surprised to learn that in 2762 he gets himself elected Senator — reading between the lines, he more or less purchased it. He's a powerful man inside Belgica. Sits on the Provincial Council. Friends with the Governor, the Procurator, the Treasury Aedile — he funded their election campaigns, contributes to their pet projects, that sort of thing. There's a picture of him with some fairly Senior Vigilium and Secretariat types."

 

"I'm shocked, domina."

 

Phoebe threw a pen at my forehead, which I just managed to dodge. She hissed, muttered a curse, and then continued. 

 

"Don't be sarcastic. So, he's successful, to be sure, and I'm not sure I'm naive enough to really believe anyone that successful in business and politics has a clean pair of hands. But..." she frowned. "It doesn't add up."

 

"What doesn't, domina?"

 

"There's a lot missing. He's a powerful man inside Belgica — so why has he never expanded? Why isn't there a Quint Bank in Rome? I mean, Belgica's wealthy, but he could doubtless make far more if he expanded outside Belgica. But he doesn't. Another curious thing. His Partnership has no none-Belgica investors. None. Even the Prosperity Journal thought that was strange, and they'd honour Hannibal if he made money. But no, he never lets anyone from outside Belgica invest with him, so far as I can tell — and believe me, I would cheerfully be your slave if you showed me no one has asked. You have to know him — really know him."

 

"My guess would be, domina, he's content where he is. If you're right then he seems to have Belgica pretty much sewn up. Why risk expanding outwards." I paused, frowning "Let's face it, the real big boys are in Rome; and they have patrons far more powerful than just a tame Praetor or Governor."

 

Phoebe nodded. "My guess exactly. Letting too many people into his secret would be too much of a risk for him. But" she shrugged, slightly helplessly. "There's a mountain of information here, no doubt, but to be honest I'm not sure how much it actually helps."

 

"I could help you go-" I began, but Phoebe waved her hand. 

 

"No, I don't mean that. But I doubt Quint will have placed hard evidence of his crimes in the pages of Invictus. This" — she indicated her notes — "is useful background, so to speak, but it doesn't prove anything. All it shows is he's a successful and politically well-connected man."

 

"Indeed, Domina" I said, slightly crisply.

 

Phoebe looked at me witheringly.

 

"Don't start with that tone with me, girl. I know you want me to be careful, and I was." She leaned back, smirking with self-satisfaction. "After all, buying reference books and ordering back issues of a dozen periodicals is not exactly unusual for a reporter, is it? I even brought a couple of books on Londinium and Antioch too, just to confuse anyone who was watching."

 

I kept my face neutral. She said it casually, as if it had been a joking afterthought, but I knew the woman who owned me better than that. Deep down — no matter how blase she might pretend to be — she was scared. Which, to my mind, was good. It showed she at least had an understanding of the sort of man we could be tracking. But her mood, I thought, would not be improved should I point that out.

 

"Resourceful, domina" I said. "But you are right." I paused. "After all, as I recall His Excellency did merely wish for your opinion on the letter. Not, as it transpires, on Quint's overall activities."

She grinned. "Excellency he may well be, but I am not his servant, Flavia. The day I obey a bloody Romulist unthinkingly is the day I die. Nonetheless, you are right." She paused, a slightly mischievous look appearing on her features. "Mind you, I did have one avenue we could explore - without stirring up any sort of attention."

 

"Yes, domina?" I asked, not terribly liking the sound of that 'we'.

"Well, my faithful slavegirl, do you fancy paying a visit to some abolitionists?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many Romans, Flavia is somewhat religious without having too clear an idea of what she actually believes in - few fully believe in the Gods worshipped thousands of years ago, yet not many more would wholly disbelieve. If pressed, she'd admit to believing in the existence of 'powers' or Gods - whether they be individual Gods, aspects of a single Divinity, or simply universal forces - and would likely have little interest in exploring the subject further. So long as 'They' are honoured and placated, she, along with most other Romans, is not too interested in prying into the details. 
> 
> Although its considered wise to worship and honour all the Gods, many Romans will have a 'Patron' God - usually a God with characteristics they find appealing or especially important in their lives. Even many supposedly atheist Romans are known to keep a small statue or alter of such a God for inspiration and comfort. Needless to say, the choice of one's Patron is often of interest to others. 
> 
> Mercury is generally worshipped by more ambitious slaves - whilst Vesta, Feronia and Concordia are thought to protect slaves by spreading harmony and encouraging obedience and kindness, Mercury is thought to reward those who seek to better themselves. 
> 
>  
> 
> Flavia and Phoebe are, as always, stolen from Mossgreen's wonderful world.


	5. In which Flavia argues with some abolitionists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flavia meets some Abolitionists, and Phoebe has a blast from the past.
> 
> As always, views expressed by any of the characters are definitely not the author's own

To tell you the truth, the knowledge that my domina knew — or at least had the contact details of — several dozen different abolitionists ought not to have surprised me as much as it did.

Firstly, she's a journalist and writer in the greatest city of the greatest state on Earth. She's spoken with politicians, actors, bankers, diplomats, academics, scientists, businessmen and soldiers. She's interviewed members of the Summa Belli Concilium (off the record), winners of the Hallartic Prize (on the record) and the Directorate of Republican Security (extremely off the record, when getting drunk with them at the Loyalty Saturnalia party). With that in mind, it was hardly surprising that she might have a couple of them in her files.

Secondly — although I'd never dream of mentioning it to her — I know she did, and indeed still does, have abolitionist sympathies. Whilst she's surprisingly recipient about some things in her life (I've never really been able to get to the bottom of, exactly, how her marriage broke up, other than occasional mutterings about 'that Syrian slut'; her familia really is depressingly loyal and close-mouthed on the subject) I do know she was involved in the Abolitionist movement when she was younger. Not, perhaps, on the extreme emancipationist wing of it, still less the circles of fanatics and rebels and murderers of the Fratrum Liberarum, or the Exercitus Invisibilia, or, Mars Protect Us All, the Osvozhdrich — but more on the legalistic end of it all.

Hades, she's mellowed since then, sensibly enough, but she's still a paid up member of Compassion. (Whom, if I'm honest, have about the same chance of getting us slaves meaningful rights as the Emancipationists have of ending the whole thing altogether — but at least they won't slaughter a lot of people and collapse the entire Republic doing it. And, in the meantime, its somewhat reassuring that my owner thinks there are some limits to what should be done to me).

Still, I was perhaps taken aback when she got out a huge file, hunted through it with an ease that showed some familiarity with its contents, and then, with a triumphant cry, extracted the details she needed; all within five minutes.

"Knew he was in here somewhere" she exclaimed, slamming the thick file shut. Vaguely, I wondered how long she'd been collecting those details. Unless one is a political obsessive (which my domina definitely is not, even though she does have the vote) the coalition of crackpots, idealists, poets, nonentities, extremists, obsessives and soft-hearted idiots who collectively make up the abolitionist movement is unlikely to be of interest to the general reader. It made me speculate why, exactly, my domina had retained such an interest in them. True, she is an amateur expert in servile law, but even so it seemed excessive to have so many contacts and notes on them. Perhaps, I mused, a story she'd never got around to writing up? 

Or, perhaps, an odd way of recapturing her youthful idealism. 

"Who, domina?"

She raised a questioning eyebrow as she scanned the sheet of yellowing paper. 

"Never you mind. Get yourself ready and grab your bag. We're off"

I did as I was bid. Obviously, I reflected, as I grabbed my bag, my domina's abolitionist sentiments had their limits.

****

In fairness to her, though, she did fill me in once we were on the tram, I'd paid the fare, and she'd managed to find herself a seat towards the back on the upper deck. I stood up, leaning against the pole.

"Shimon ben Khita" she said, tapping the sheet of paper. 

"Never heard of him, domina." The name, I thought, sounded Jewish — almost defiantly so, lacking as it did even one traditional Roman name. Most of them, after all, did adopt at least Roman name after their last revolt was crushed, signifying at least partial acceptance of the Republic. 

"He's an...odd one" she said, thoughtfully. "I knew him..." she drifted off for a moment, and then shook her head. "Well, that doesn't matter. A long time ago."

I kept my face carefully blank, reflecting there was definitely a story there. 

"Anyway" she continued. "He's a... I don't know? Orator and advocate, I guess."

"A lawyer? Seems respectable enough, domina."

There was a slight rattle as we crossed the Tiber at speed. This part of the route was one I knew well; after all, Phoebe's father worked at the Imperial Symposium, and it was a rare month when she didn't visit the Vatican us to have lunch with him. This time, though, we would be heading south west, much further out, about halfway to Ostia itself — one of those almost anonymous suburbs between the port and Rome proper. 

"Hardly" Phoebe said. "He's a...oh, I don't know." She frowned. "Troublemaker, I think is the best description."

"Troublemaker?"

She nodded, absently.

"Of sorts." She looked at me. "You know. Protests against every single war we're involved in and then protests when we don't intervene. Speech after speech to every minor splinter group you can think of. Defends all manner of radicals in court and sometimes ends up joining them in front of the Praetor. Organises street protests against all and sundry — the slave trade, mostly, but also against excessive Vigilium force, foreign interventions, had sort of thing. Arrested more times than I can count. Hades, the Sanhedrin Council formally censured and excommunicated him years ago; but even that didn't stop him. He's been at it for years." She sniffed, shaking her head — but I thought I detected a whiff of admiration, albeit grudging, in her tone. I couldn't resist asking:

"So how do you know him, domina."

It was, I think, a mistake She looked at me, eyes narrowed slightly, and spoke in a notably colder tone. 

"None of your business, girl."

And with that, the conversation was over. I lent against the pole as we sped out of the city, vaguely running ideas for Loyalty articles through my mind. Perhaps another variant on 'How to argue (respectfully) with your owner' — although Phoebe, frankly, had not been best pleased with that one (although the staff and Vigilium both found it hilarious). Articles on distant lands were always popular — perhaps one with a slave at a holiday resort, maybe? Or, I considered briefly, watching Phoebe look pensively out of the window, 'So your owner is off to meet with strange mad lawyers. What do I do?'. I still, I recalled, needed to finish that one on Gallius and his Rubrum Gloria, and I passed the rest of the journey trying to twist what I'd already written into an article that would interest to an overworked, illiterate household drone.

I'd never before been in the Laciniun district, and frankly I could see why. It was, I guessed, inhabited mostly by those one step above poverty — the sort who own maybe one elderly slave and one motorized vehicle permanently on the edge of breaking down. We stepped off the deserted station, into the deserted streets. A few shops — mostly cheap utilitarian stores, the sort which sell foodstuffs right next to plugs and bleach next to the bread — were shuttered, as was a disreputable looking tavern. A few vehicles — motorized rickshaws, mostly — were on the streets. A young man, in a bright orange tunic, was washing the nearest. He glanced up at us incuriously, then returned to his task. 

"Here" Phoebe said, pointing to a house that looked no different from its neighbors. 

For an, apparently, lifelong opponent of the State, ben Khita's house was surprisingly ordinary — a regular house; the walls bare and whitewashed, the windows covered with iron bars.

I looked around, slightly nervously. Phoebe saw my worried glance.

"What is it, girl?"

I frowned, and then looked at her

"Domina..." I said, slightly awkwardly, and then blurted out "domina, should we really be here?"

She blinked. "Why on Earth shouldn't we be?"

"Domina, I'm a slave, and you write for a magazine for slaves."

"So?"

"Well..." I shifted, uneasily. "Perhaps seeing an abolitionist lawyer is not-"

She flicked her eyes heavenward. "Oh, for the love of Juno, girl. Have some bloody spine. I'm a citizen of the People's Republic of Rome, I can see who I want." She smiled, slightly more gently. "And besides. I can also say its for an article I'm writing on him."

I nodded, not entirely convinced — but then again, it wasn't as if I had much of a choice. At a nod from Phoebe, I rapped on the door and waited.  
And then waited some more.

Quite a bit more time went by before the door opened, perhaps an inch. A young man — barely more than a boy, really — with lank, black hair peered suspiciously out of us, blinking sleepily. 

"Yes?"

I passed Phoebe's card to him. "My domina, the respectable Phoebe Camilla Vestina, would be honored should your gracious dominus condescend to grant us a moment of his valuable time" I said, reciting the standard formula. The youth snorted. 

"Dominus? I'm not his bloody slave" he said, and shut the door in our faces. I winced, as I realised my mistake. The free never like to be mistaken for slaves, after all, and no abolitionist would be pleased to see a woman who has her slave announce her presence. 

I turned around, and winced again as I saw Flavia's not hugely impressed face. 

"Yes, Flavia, that was a brilliant idea, sparrow-brain" snapped my domina. "I've only mentioned ben Khita's opposed to slavery fifteen or so times, so I can completely see how you'd overlook the fact and mention I own you, and imply he owns slaves as well."

"Sorry, domina" I said. I was, however, saved from a further tongue lashing (although say this for Phoebe, with a very few exceptions that's the only kind of lashing I've ever had to fear from her) when the door swung open once again — this time, fully — by a much older, and much more imposing, man.

He was tall, gray bearded, and had an air of command about him, bent-backed though he was. He was dressed in a long, dark blue robe; a robe that had clearly seen better days but which still lent him an air of authority, like a priest from some antique religion. 

He looked at us both through steely eyes, which finally settled on Phoebe. 

"You!" he said, in a not terribly friendly manner. Phoebe smiled. 

"Shimon, sir! You haven't changed a bit!" she gushed, in that tone that usually has men falling over themselves to tell her things. Shimon, however, just glared at her.

"Whils you, girl, have, and not for the better" he snapped. "It's been seven years, I believe. Now you write for that lying rag and own another human." He switched his glare, briefly, to yours truly, as though I'd done something to deserve his ire. "Who is this?"

Phoebe's eyes didn't waver for a moment — a lesser woman, I think, would have maybe dropped them to the ground; a weaker woman might have flushed with embarrassment. 

"My slave" she said, calmly. Simon sniffed; her ready confession, so to speak, had I fancy rather unbalanced him. 

"How much did she cost?"

"Is that relevant?" smiled Phoebe. 

"I'm just interested. To see how much a girl I once thought had some principles would spend to buy another woman's life."

"With all due respect, sir, I did not come here to debate morality with you. Nor suffer insult."

"I did not ask you to come here, girl. What do you want?"

"Well, sir. Firstly, it is a hot day, and me and my slave are tired. So firstly, a seat and some water." As Shimon opened his mouth in outrage, she went on. "And then, of course, to benefit from your wisdom and learning."

Simon was, no doubt, an uncommon man, but he was common enough that a confident, pretty woman flattering him softened him, at least a little. True, we were invited inside with little grace — but we were invited inside and that, as any journalist will tell you, is most of the battle won.

Inside, it was plainly — almost austerely — decorated. No death masks in the atrium, no paintings of ancestors (real or fancied), no military medallions hanging on the walls. I cocked my head. From somewhere in the house I could hear voices, and the clattering of typewriters.

"This is more than just a home" said Shimon, proudly. "It is my office as well. I have seven members of staff. All paid, all free" he added, looking coldly at me again. "Currently, we're working on several cases. One is going before the court next week."

"Do you ever slow down?" asked Phoebe, apparently sincerely. Shimon shook his head. 

"No. I will have plenty of time to do that when I'm dead. And I cannot spare you much of my time."

"We won't need much time" said Phoebe. Shimon motioned us to a bench in the atrium — obviously, we were still not honored enough guests to enter any further into the house. "It's more to pick your brains, if anything."

"Huh. But first, I should like to pick yours" he said, looking at me. 

"Of course" said Phoebe. "I-"

"I was speaking to your slave" he said, curtly. "Whom you have so far failed to introduce."

Phoebe's eyes for a moment blazed at his rudeness. Deciding I had few enough chances in my life to upstage my domina, I held out my hand, to be kissed, like any freeborn Roman woman might.

"I'm Fla via, sir" I said. He took my hand, and gently kissed it. He smiled then, his whole face softening. "Blondie?"

I grinned back. "Long story, sir. Blame a slave dealer who thought blondes sold for more."

"Hah!" he said, amused. "Well, you don't lack for spine. I see that hasn't altogether been beaten out of you."

There was an implicit question there, but I ignored it. 

"Thank you, sir."

"Not that it would matter if she did or not" he muttered, casting another nasty glance at Phoebe. "All the laws of God, if not man, hold that we all are His Children — no matter what those cowards of the Sanhedrin say. And what, after all, gives one of His Children the right to buy and sell another, as an animal? You, Phoebe, knew that once." He leaned back on his bench and looked at her curiously. "I wonder what happened?" He sighed. "Please, at least tell me it was not something as lazy and self-indulgent as mere convenience that led to" he gestured to me. "This."

"She treats me well enough, sir" I said, a note of tartness maybe entering my tone. He looked surprised — as, I noted, did Phoebe. It is not, after all, common for slaves to comment on their treatment, save for the usual bland platitudes of gratitude at being owned by such strict yet kindly owners which I think everyone knows are simply verbal froth, not meant to be taking seriously. But I did not take kindly to Phoebe being characterized like that. 

"That is hardly the point" he snapped. "Slavery is wrong, regardless of character. Indeed, one might argue that a kind owner is worse than a harsh one; for a kind one leads to a slave being grateful to be merely property and accepting the evil that is done to them, whilst the evil of the harsh one is always on display."

I blinked. "Sir, may I in return ask a question? Do you believe slaves should have the right to speak freely to their betters?"

He nodded. "No." I must have looked surprised, for he added "I do not believe that there are 'betters' and 'inferiors' in this world".

"Then what you said is rubbish, sir. The sort of thing that may sound impressive from a philosopher — and one who I doubt ever had to worry about being beaten or starved, come to that. But I would challenge you to find but one slave in the Republic who thinks like that. I make no statement on the morality of the system — I am not so stupid as that" I said, with a wry glance at Phoebe, who was leaning back on her bench, a slight smile about her mouth. "But to say there is no difference between a good owner and a bad one is simply not true. It matters very much to the slave, if not to the philosopher who is sitting comfortably in his chair and has the luxury of thinking in those sorts of abstracts."

I realised I was leaning forwards, and leant back, slightly taken aback by my own outburst. I looked again at my domina, who had covered her mouth. She was, I realised with a surge of relief, amused more than anything - perhaps, I thought, thinking Shimon had rather brought it on himself by asking for a slave's honest opinion . Nonetheless, I hurried to make it clear I knew my place.

"I apologise, sir, if I gave offence-"

"You did" rumbled Shimon, but then he grinned. "Nonetheless, since I must treat you as I would any other young woman — and one who is certainly more intelligent than most of her sex — I suppose I must swallow the offence." His tone grew less jovial, and he looked again at Phoebe. "I suppose then I must give you meagre credit for not utterly breaking this one's spirit."

"She is mouthy, to be sure, and sometimes forgets her place" said Phoebe affectionately "yet her attitude is one reason why I purchased her"

"Hmm" said Simon, and for a moment he said nothing. Weighing us both up, I imagine. 

"Very well. What would you have of me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summa Belli Concilium - literally 'High Strategy Council'. Headed by the Princeps and dominated by the Militum, its role is to coordinate Roman military, covert and intelligence actions worldwide. Almost all senior Militum leaders have at some point served on the Council's staff. 
> 
> Hallartic Prize - established by the Dictator Hallarticus for major achievements in engineering, science, literature and the arts.
> 
> Abolitionist/Emancipationist - the distinction is not always clear; Abolitionist usually refers to someone in the wider anti-slavery movement, whilst Emancipationist refers to someone wanting immediate and total abolition. 
> 
> Fratrum Liberarum - the 'Free Brotherhood'. Proscribed organisation, mostly made up of slaves and ex-slaves, who are known for their 'executions' of Romans accused of mistreating slaves. 
> 
> Exercitus Invisibilia - 'Invisible Army'. Proscribed organisation dedicated to overthrowing slavery more generally; notorious for targeting high ranking Romans, especially in the slave trade and Vigilium. 
> 
> Osvozhdrich - an archaic Volkish word, best rendered as the 'Unshackled'. Volkish backed proscribed organisation, notorious for high casualty, indiscriminate attacks and use of military style tactics. Openly pledged to the destruction of the Roman state. 
> 
> Sanhedrin - an organisation of Jewish scholars and religious leaders, who aim to represent the interests of the Jewish community in the People's Republic. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Flavia and Phoebe are originally from Mossgreen; although their characterisation is mostly mine.


	6. What happens in Belgica, stays in Belgica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe and Flavia, investigating reports of corruption and crime in a distant province, sit down with notorious rabble rouser and committed abolitionist Shimon. 
> 
> And the more they find out, the worse it gets.
> 
> (Mossgreen originally created Flavia and Phoebe; although their characterisations are mine. So thanks for letting me borrow her girls!)

Phoebe leaned back, looking idly around the atrium.

 

"Frankly, sir, I need your help."

 

"Help with what - precisely?" he said, looking at her intently. "We knew each other once, Phoebe, but that was a long time ago." He folded his arms. "I will not aid you smear your former comrades, or produce the usual lies the Vigilium pumps out about us, or write some garbage about how slavery is somehow justified by some tortured logic, or that its right that some people are just treated as property" He looked at me, a slight look of disfavour on his face. "Like what is claimed by that servile rag you write for, Flavia." He snorted. "Or will you swear before Jupiter that the Eyes have nothing to do with Loyalty, and it is indeed produced with the best of intentions to make the lives of slaves easier?"

 

I looked at him, levelly. He had a point, of course. Loyalty is designed to be easy to digest propaganda, of course. That's why the government funds it, why it is printed and handed out free of charge. A simple, easy to understand magazine that makes suitable reading for serviles, reminds them of their place, and advises them how best to serve their 'betters'.

 "It is no secret that the Directorate of Republican Security is involved with Loyalty, sir" I said, quietly. "But whatever you think of it, it is popular and widely read by slaves across the Republic."

 

"Popularity doesn't prove morality, girl" he snapped. I shrugged.

"No, sir, it doesn't. But" I flashed him a quick mischievous smile "it does prove that slaves themselves find reading it of value to them, for whatever reason." It was probably foolish of me, but I couldn't resist adding: "No matter what the free might think about their reading choices."

 

"Enough, girl!" Phoebe snapped at me. "Apologies, sir. Flavia is loyal, but sometimes she forgets her place".

 

Shimon sniffed; a half smile playing about his face. "I prefer being insulted by a slip of a girl than speaking to a woman grovelling at my feet"

 

"Of course, sir" said Phoebe, smoothly. "And the attitude does you credit, sir. I let her argue with me on occasion, too."

 

She was, in truth, being honest -although perhaps argue is too strong a word. But so long as I'm respectful and recall I'm her slave, not her equal, she is not the sort to punish me for speaking my mind . After all, as she has reminded me more than once, if she simply wanted a woman who'd agree with her to prevent a beating, there are cheaper, prettier, more charming and more polite girls than me available anywhere, who are probably better cooks as well. 

 

And no, I don't know if that was a disguised compliment either. 

 

"I doubt that, somehow" said Shimon. "But you came here for a reason, Phoebe. Perhaps rather than fruitlessly debate, we could hear it?"

 

"Firstly, I swear to you , Shimon ben Khita, that what I have in mind will if anything aid your cause." She smiled. "I've been...commissioned, let us say, by a very powerful man."

 

"You do mix in exalted circles, nowadays" murmured Shimon, looking at her sceptically. "Might I have the name of this personage?"

 

Phoebe smiled. "Hardly, sir. I would not break any confidences you give to me, why should I break any I give to him? However" she pointed upwards. 

 

"A Senator? Censor? Member of the Praesidium? God Himself?"

 

"Correct - one of them, anyway" said Phoebe, with a quick smile. "And this gentleman wishes me to look into reports that have been troubling him."

 

"Does he, now?" smiled Shimon. "A man of vast resource, power and influence goes to a hack writer for assistance. Forgive me." He added a touch of sarcasm. "I have no doubt that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this."

 

Phoebe, if she was insulted, gave no sigh of it. 

 

"You know as I do that the Senate is a snake pit and that the Censorate is worse. Making open inquiries could make him needless enemies; you know how tangled the web of influence and favours can be. Patronage isn't always obvious. So he would want to be sure of his facts before revealing his hand."

 

I looked ahead, as though I wasn't listening - slavery teaches you very quickly, and indeed painfully - not to let your true feelings show. But inwardly I was squirming. It was all very well Phoebe hiding the name of Senator Callarius, but revealing the object of our inquiries - a man we knew to be powerful and secretive, and strongly suspected of being able to sink to any level? 

 

"Sensible of him. And convenient for you that I have no way of verifying this story." Shimon paused. "Let us say I believe somewhere in this morass of lies and half truths there is a grain of honesty. What do you want from me?"

 

"The story is that a Praetor - or a gang of them - is conspiring to deliberately enslave Roman citizens. When a girl of particular beauty catches their eye, so the story goes - they twist the law. They accuse her parents of being perhaps runaways, or criminals, or suchlike. And then she is taken, and enslaved, and used to satisfy the depraved lusts of these monsters." She took a deep breath, and looked Shimon straight in the eye. "Just as Appius Claudius did to Verginia. If true, it is an abomination."  
Shimon grunted. "An abomination, no doubt. And yet, harsh as this may sound, I struggle to see why I should be especially concerned with these girls. Tragic for them - but then legally men and women are enslaved every day. Under the guise of law, citizens who've done no more than make a few bad choices are taken into slavery. And that's not even counting the unfortunates who are born into it." His lips quirked, sardonically. "I sound cruel, no doubt. But I find it hard to understand why the tragic fates of a few is of so much concern."

 

Truth be told, I had had a similar thought. Don't get me wrong, my heart bled for Jania (assuming she was, indeed, real) but Shimon had a point. No one, for instance, had been particularly concerned that I was destined for slavery the moment I was conceived (whilst my half sister, by virtue of being born five years after, is a citizen). No one, I was sure, had been shocked that I was legally property, that I could be whipped and starved and raped according to the random whim of my owner. And no doubt there were a hundred - a thousand - slaves who were treated far worse than Jania, but because they were in that position legally, no one would ever care. Certainly, whilst Phoebe would deplore their treatment, she wouldn't see their status as any sort of abomination. 

 

Phoebe frowned. "And yet, sir, if this came out...think of the scandal." She smiled. "Think of the headlines, think of the outcry. And if the citizenry saw that Praetors could abuse such power...they might question whether they should have that power in the first place. They might even set to wondering how the law could allow citizens to be enslaved."

 

"You have a point" said Shimon, trying to sound uninterested. I could tell, though, he was mentally rubbing his hands with glee at the thought of the public embarrassment such a revelation would cause.

 

"And of course" said Phoebe, laying it on thickly now, "it might even make some wonder what the real difference is between a girl who was illegally enslaved and a girl who was legally enslaved."

 

Shimon grunted. 

"I see. And in return, of course, your nameless powerful Patron gets a nudge up the Cursus honorum. I'm not entirely naive, Phoebe. But I won't deny I'm intrigued, though I can't see your reasons for wanting my help."

 

"It's simple, sir. My Patron doesn't know - or if he does know, he isn't saying - where these outrages take place. And I have not the time to visit every province and trawl through their archives, which could well have been doctored in any case. But I do know some people who do closely monitor the courts, do try and challenge enslavements, do collect more than just the bare legal details." 

 

Shimon looked at me, smiling coldly. "What Phoebe is referring to, Flavia, is the work she used to do, when her heart was, it seems, more compassionate." He returned his attention to her. "Yes, we still do - or rather, one of the organisations I'm involved with does.  Monitor the courts, challenge sentences of servitutem poenae expetitae whenever we can, help out those with fines so great they have no option but to sell themselves, intervene if some owner tries to claim a person as their slave, aid in bringing prosecutions against the most atrocious owners for outraging public morality, defend slaves accused of crimes. No matter what. We have some successes, but many more failures."

 

"Jurists for True Justice is a worthy organisation" Phoebe smiled "even for those of us who may not be ardent abolitionists. But if you do have those, perhaps you could see if any appear unconventional? Strange?" She smiled. "Ones which didn't feel right, which didn't fit the pattern?". She leaned forward. "With respect, sir, you must read thousands of those documents every year. You'd probably be one of the few people in the Republic who could identify something unusual. The first, I think, would have happened around 2756". 

 

"All such cases are foul offences against God" said Shimon, but regardless, he cocked his head, frowning - averting, I noticed with some amusement, his eyes from Phoebe's face, which was now almost scandalously close to his. I wondered, for a moment, if there was more than just campaigning history between the two of them.

 

"2756" he repeated to himself. "I will have the clerks go through the records but...hmm." He drummed his fingers on the bench. "That is almost a decade ago, Phoebe."   
For a few moments, none of us said anything. Shimon bowed his head in thought, whilst I resisted the urge to flatter Phoebe - and genuinely, at that. It had been a smart trick of hers, a way to get information without alerting Shimon to our true purpose.

 

"There were a few odd cases, I think" said Shimon. "But as I said I'll ask the clerks to look. There was a case, I recall, in I think West Thessalia. A very odd case; a mother tried to claim her child was a slave during a divorce proceeding, or somesuch. In Osroene there was a case much as you described, or so the defence claimed. In Belgica there was that strange case of the journalists. And in Novempopulania there was an accusation that a Praetor was far too harsh in his sentences, and one of those unfortunates was a girl he very much desired. That's probably the one your Patron was thinking of, though as I recall..>"

"Almost certainly" said Phoebe, and then, casually, she added. "What was that about journalists?"

 

Perhaps it was my imagination, but for a moment it seemed Shimon's expression flickered slightly, a shadow coming over his face.

"Oh...yes. That was a very strange affair." He frowned. 

"How so?" asked Phoebe, still just casually curious. 

 

Shimon shook his head. "I don't know, perhaps. It just felt...odd. Basically, there were these two journalists, accused of actually been runaway slaves. Which is ridiculous, really. Runaways tend to live on the margins, beneath notice. Not act as journalists. But you know how sometimes these accusations get made; most of them never go anywhere. But then this Praetor - Velgrim, I think his name was - said they were actually slaves"

 

Phoebe looked blankly at him. "Forgive me, I still don't see why you'd remember that case."  
"Well...maybe it was the speed. Or the secrecy. The hearing took less than a day. But you know how it is - or maybe you don't. But when an accusation like that gets made against anyone of standing, there's outrage. Letters to Senators, protests, all that sort of thing. Good, respectable citizens don't take kindly to been accused of being runaway slaves." He chuckled grimly. "I know of several slave owners who know for a fact their runaways still are in the Republic, but aren't get them back because of the backlash it could cause. But here...there was none of that, it seemed. They just..disappeared, so it seemed, almost without a trace. We only found out about it afterwards. And then"...  
He trailed off. 

 

"And then what, sir?"

 

"Well, one of our activists lived in Belgica. I asked him to look into it. He did so - and then, three weeks later, reported back everything was fine, it was normal, and slightly rudely asked me to not waste his time on trivialities. Shortly afterwards, he left us entirely. Came into money, apparently, and went to work in Antioch."

 

"I see" said Phoebe, not sounding terribly impressed - or interested - though I knew her well enough to know that beneath the bored expression she was noting down every word said. She could have won a Hallartic prize for her acting. But Shimon, reminiscing, was just getting into his story.   
"It gets stranger, I  asked a clerk I was friendly with in the city about it, casually. He wrote back, saying he'd look into it. The next week, the Secretariat promoted him - and transferred him to Outer Sythia. And then there was that strange case with Lucius. Not one of ours, one of the Par Civium lot. But a good man, nonetheless."

 

"What happened to him?"

 

He was in Belgica, and asked a few questions, and wrote me a few letters, saying that there was something really quite strange about the case. He didn't go into specifics, but reading between the lines, it seemed he interviewed a couple of locals, who thought the whole thing was bizarre. But then..." he paused, looking at us both, almost shamefacedly.

 

"Look, I don't entirely know what happened. But he started dropping hints he thought he was being followed, watched. Now that's nothing unusual, I have no doubt the Eyes keep a watchful vigil on most of us Abolitionists. But he hinted it wasn't the Vigilium, it was...someone else. And then...nothing, for almost three months, and then a brief - and extremely nasty - letter from his mother, all the way over in Cyprus. She blamed me for this nervous breakdown he'd had; the Vigilium had picked him up, it seems, in the streets of the provincial capital, stark naked, and locked him in an asylum. Whilst he was there, he hanged himself."

 

I spluttered. "Hanged himself!" I looked around. Phoebe was looking at me, one eyebrow raised, and I subsided instantly.   
"Apologies, sir, Domina."  
"Quite" snapped Phoebe. "Hanged himself?" she repeated, curiously. "Poor man, mind disordered like that. Still..." she shook her head. "It sounds a strange case, to be sure. How come you did not pursue it further?"

 

For a moment, Shimon said nothing, a curious expression on his face, and then he sighed, heavily. "I suppose I should have done, maybe. But there's always so much to do...". He looked around, and a sudden passion entered his voice. "Gods, Phoebe! You know we're always overstretched. I can't investigate everything. That year was busy, we had the elections, I recall, that huge march planned, the-"

 

"Of course" said Phoebe, soothingly. "I understand, sir. And, to be honest, it didn't seem what my Patron had in mind. That case in Novempopulania sounds much more likely." She smiled. "Perhaps, sir, if you could let me have a copy of your notes on that one. It would indeed be much appreciated." She leaned forward, flicking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "I realise, sir, our views may have parted, bit I hope we both abhor the abuse of power."

 

Shimon nodded. "I will send that over. But I will want your oath that you will not say from whom you got this information. Powerful men have powerful friends, after all, and we walk along the edge of a blade with the authorities as it is."  
Phoebe reached out her hand, and they clasped hands. "Of course, sir. Neither myself nor Flavia will breath a word of this. On my honour as a Roman."

 

Shimon sniffed, obviously not having too high an opinion of Roman honour, but he nodded his agreement. Phoebe cocked her head.  
"In fact, sir, it would be interesting to see your notes on that Belgica case as well. As I mentioned, its of no interest now, but..." she shrugged. "A future article, maybe? And again, you have my word you would not be mentioned as the source."

 

Shimon paused - much longer, this time - and then nodded his head. That crious expression was back on his face. "Very well. I won't deny that one has...irked me, over the years. But, in the end, there are only so many of us, and so many hours in the day." He looked at Phoebe, a note of resentment entering his voice. "That was, girl, why it hurts so that you left our ranks. We need every soldier we can get. But...perhaps you might be able to correct some small injustices. Although, it seems, for the wrong reasons."  
Phoebe kept her face neutral - although I sensed that barb, at least, had struck home.

 

"As Romulus said, a man lost in the night cannot choose whose fire he sits at."

******************************************************************************

 

We emerged, blinking, in the sunlight, and began walking back towards the tram station. The street, it seemed, was still deserted. Aside from -

 

"I know, girl" said Phoebe, mildly, averting her eyes from the sight. "I see him too. I've never seen a man take so long over such a small task."

 

It was the man in the orange toga, whom we had seen washing a motorized rickshaw an hour ago, as we stepped into Shimon's house. He was, it seemed, still washing it.  
I averted my eyes, and we walked on, as though we hadn't noticed the man.

 

"Who is he?"

 

"My guess? An Eye. He's a troublemaker, I'd be surprised if he wasn't watched."

 

I felt my palms sweat, my blood run cold, a freezing, sick feeling seep through my body.

 

"An...an Eye?" I squawked. I gulped. "Domina, I-!"

 

"Oh, have some spine, girl. Just because you visit Shimon doesn't mean they'll snatch you off the street. Besides, you know some Eyes." She grinned. "You know one of them very well, as I understand."

 

I felt myself blush , and Phoebe smirked, as she always did when she succeeded in making me squirm about that time she caught a naked Executioner on my bed, and a naked slavegirl on her knees next to him. 

 

"And I have a perfectly reasonable excuse to be visiting Shimon. To be honest, I'm more interested in him."

 

"Shimon, domina?" I said, slightly eager for the change of subject. It was fine for Phoebe to be more casual about the risk, the Executioners no longer come for citizens in the dead of night - well, not officially, anyway. For slaves like me though, coming to their attention is generally extremely bad news, and far fewer people complain should a slave disappear into their cells. On the other hand, we'd doubtless been seen, and what was done was done. I'd just have to hope Phoebe's confidence was justified.  
"Exactly. Shimon. Specifically, when you asked the rather pertinent - if impertinent - question as to why he'd never followed up in Belgica. He blew us off with a line about being too busy. Did that strike you as odd?"

 

I frowned, curiously. "He seemed a bit annoyed at you, domina, but..." I trailed off. "No, you're right domina. It looked like he was trying to decide how much to tell us."

 

"Perhaps" said Phoebe, slowly. "But for my money, it looked for a moment like he was scared. And, what is more, lying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curia Censorate - best translated as 'Council of the Censors'. The body is made up of approximately three hundred Censors. The body has no clear responsibilities beyond a vague statement to maintain the traditions, values and morals of the People's Republic; however it is immensely influential; Censors are typically drawn from elder statesmen, distinguished scientists and scholars, senior military officers, and the like. Typically, it conducts hearings and inquiries, evaluates policies, and provides guidance to the Senate, Praesidium and Princeps. 
> 
> Praesidium - headed by the Princeps, the Praesidium is effectively the 'ruling council' of the Republic. It includes the  Princeps, other high ranking Senators (Consuls and Proconsuls) in addition to senior members of the Militum, Vigilium, Secreteriat, Comitibus Senatus, Curia Censorate and the Congregatis Praetura. 
> 
> Eyes - informal term for members of the Vigilium's Directorate of Republican Security
> 
> Executioners - informal term for the Armed Cohorts of the Directorate of Republican Security
> 
> servitutem poenae expetitae - a sentence of immediate enslavement. Generally reserved for persistent or violent offenders and often seen as a slow death sentence; most sentenced to this end up living and dying in a labour camp. 
> 
> Jurists for True Justice - organisation of legal scholars, advocates and ex-Praetors who aim to provide legal support to slaves, those at risk of enslavement, and other members of the Abolitionist movement. 
> 
> Par Civium - Small, non-violent but radical Abolitionist group.


	7. A day at the baths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the latest instalment, Phoebe is summoned to present her report on Quint's alleged wrongdoing. At least she first gets to enjoy the luxury of a high class Thermae first - unlike Flavia, her slave. 
> 
> Flavia and Phoebe are taken from Mossgreen's wonderful world. 
> 
> I should point out that I've modernised the Roman baths here quite a bit - imagine a cross between a gym, swimming pool and spa. The originals were, despite the reputation, apparently pretty filthy places (a fact even the Romans themselves occasionally recognised).

"I have to admit" said Phoebe, lazily, as one slave massaged her back and another painted her nails "there are worse places to wait for a meeting."

I said nothing. She was comfortably nude, stretched out on a warm, fluffy towel, being pampered by three girls who evidently knew their business. I, on the other hand, was stiff from waiting on a wooden bench for two hours, my back up against a metal locker, the skin sticking to my damp tunic, and sweating freely in the sweltering, humid heat. 

The lead girl - tall, with skin so dark it was almost ebony - was plaiting my domina's hair with skilful fingers. Unlike the other girls, I judged, she was free. How I could tell I wasn't sure; she wore only the same loincloth as the other slaves; a concession no doubt to the wet heat. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself when addressing my domina - in a respectful, but not servile, manner; or the way she occasionally and quietly snapped orders at her inferiors. 

"Indeed, madam" she said. "The Baths of Sulla prides itself on being, how shall we say, a cut above the average Thermae."

Well, in terms of cost at least she was right. The larger Thermae are of course all state owned; and were where Phoebe and myself mostly frequented - a weekly treat for her, a perhaps trimonthly one for me. This one, however, was small, private, discreet, and had an eye watering admission fee that definitely precluded me from taking any advantages of the facilities. It had not, however, precluded my domina, who employed the somewhat suspect reasoning that since she was spending so much anyway, she might as well spend even more and get the full experience. So, whilst yours truly had been stuck in the apodyterium, guarding her domina's locker, Phoebe had enjoyed a leisurely shower in the tepidarium, followed by a relaxing swim in the caldarium, a steam in the perfumed humidity of the sudatorium, followed by a bracing plunge into the frigidarium and a final shower in the tepidarium, and had then decided, to recover from that evidently stressful experience, she needed a massage, pedicure, manicure and her hair restyled. 

"Definitely, it is" said Phoebe. "My own alcove - no getting changed in public. Quiet, no obnoxious youths shouting, no children screaming." She cocked her head. "And some of the male patrons are very good looking." 

I suppressed a smile. Of course, like any good Roman woman, Phoebe holds it perfectly natural for men and women to bathe together and, like any respectable citizen, she would never dream of flirting in such circumstances. Still, it doesn't stop her casting an appreciative eye over the more attractive members of the male gender on occasion - some of whom, I am pretty sure, come to the baths more to look at attractive women than anything else. Not that Phoebe - or indeed, myself - object much; although one does learn to glare very effectively at those males who don't quite understand the social niceties and make their interest rather too intrusive. 

"Indeed, madam?" smiled the lead girl. "Well, we do hope this will not be your last visit. We do offer some very attractive membership packages."

For the sake of me not being forced to subsist on stale bread in order to afford this, I rather hoped it would be the last. Phoebe just smiled, lazily, as one of the slaves finished. She lifted up her hand, inspecting it. "Wonderful" she said, and in a somewhat thoughtful tone, asked: "I don't suppose you offer lessons, do you?"

"Lessons, madam?"

"Well" Phoebe indicated me with a nod. "I'm not sure I could afford this every week, but it would be pleasant to have a massage after a difficult day. Alas, Flavia here was not really taught some of these softer skills."

The dark skinned woman looked at me for a moment, whilst I simply looked ahead. Phoebe was not exactly telling the unvarnished truth there - most servile academies, including the one where I grew up, offer that sort of training. But it was never something I excelled at - nor, truthfully, wished to excel at. My ideal role, even back then, was something that so far as possible would avoid the casual sexual abuse dished out to most slaves (and I (on the whole) succeeded); and I found it hard to imagine a situation where relaxing my unclothed owners physically  would be less likely to lead to that. Learning to summarise documents, cross reference, take notes and keep accurate accounts, on the other hand, did.   

"It does take considerable training, madam. But I shall enquire with the management."

Privately, I hoped that the price would be prohibitively expensive. I'm not overburdened with free time, and the thought   
of having to spend it learning to relax my Domina was not exactly a happy one. Still, it wasn't as if I had much of a choice; and I guess there's worse jobs in the world than rubbing your owners back for an hour or so whilst she whines about her day.  

"Do that" murmured Phoebe and then - "you lost, girl?"

A short, somewhat foreign looking girl - perhaps in her early teens - had slid into the room. Dark skinned, I guessed, but neither African nor from the east - the Indus, or Jia, or somewhere like that.

"Remove yourself, girl" snapped the woman plaiting Phoebe's hair. The girl looked at her and then smiled.

"I beg forgiveness, ma'am" she said - her tone rather hinting that she did not think she needed to - "but my Dominus bids me to present his compliments, and a request that you join him at your earliest convenience." She bowed, and then presented a slip of paper to Phoebe, who was already sitting upright.

"The Lobster Room?" she frowned. 

"A private room, just above the main dining area" said the girl, before any of the staff had any time to answer. She bowed again, and then smiled. "My dominus is most eager to meet you". She paused. "Thank you for your time, ma'am, and ma'am."

"Someone ought to take a cane to that girl" muttered the woman. "But regardless, madam, the Lobster Room - all our rooms are named for the sea - is directly above the main dining area. And, madam, very discreet. Clients come to the Baths of Sulla for many reasons, of course, but we find that many of them favour us as we do offer - how shall we say - discretion? So that they might freely meet and discuss away from the gaze of the plebs. Our small dining rooms offer that facility.". And, her tone seemed to indicate, have affairs with each other as well. Well, if she wanted to go on thinking that, then that was fine by me. What I carried in my bag was far more dangerous than most affairs tend to be. 

"Good" said Phoebe, a pleb herself, as she stood up. One of the slaves started to towel her off, whilst I unlocked the locker and passed her her underwear, then her tunic. 

"And you do look dazzling" complimented the woman, obviously looking for a tip. Sensing the hint, I passed Phoebe her purse; and she extracted three denari. The woman's smile faltered slightly - obviously, at a place like this, she expected something higher. 

Phoebe nodded, as she draped her stola over herself and I secured the silver clasps at the shoulders, before fastening the two belts gently around her body, keeping the garment in place. 

"I should hope so" she said, lightly; the look on her face rather indicating her 'meeting' was, perhaps, tending more towards the scandalous, as I draped the palla - the same bottle green one she'd worn when first meeting the Senator - around her body, before finally passing her her jewellery.

"If you require total privacy" said the woman, smiling "your slave could, for a small fee-"

"Oh, trust me" Phoebe smiled. "I wouldn't dream of leaving her out."

"Intriguing" said the woman, evidently angling for further juicy titbits. I got, I noticed, a sympathetic look from both of the slaves; no doubt figuring I was an unwilling participant in an orgy - although frankly, part of me thought that might be a better outcome. 

 

The Lobster Room was, as might be expected, marked with a symbol of a lobster on the dark, wooden door - the Romans are, I have heard more than once from various foreigners, a somewhat literal minded people. Our guide - one of the slaves - knocked on it.

"Sir, your guest is here".

It was opened - I noticed the door was thick - by the same girl we'd seen previously.

"Ah, ma'am" she said, her tones refined and oddly patrician.  She turned. 

"Dominus, your visitor is here!"

The room, I noticed, was small, dominated by a table at which two men - the same two men we'd met previously - were sitting. The remains of a lunch were between them. Fish, I judged. 

"Ah, excellent" said the Senator, standing up. "Leave us" he snapped, and the slave hurriedly shut the door behind us. 

"Your Excellency" said Phoebe, striding forward and clasping the Senator's hand.

"Citizen Vestina. Please, sit."

She did so, whilst I and the child remained standing - thought Claudilo, I noticed, after standing along with his dominus, sat back down. A subtle but unmistakable reminder of our various stations. The two, I guessed, were obviously close; Claudilo serving his dominus doubtless for years, and though he might be a slave, some of his owner's status would reflect on him as well. No doubt, whilst he'd be punctilious when dealing with the free, he'd also have little problem with sitting down and talking with them almost as equals. Whilst, and with all due respect to Phoebe, the reflection of her status did not, perhaps, have the same lustre. 

"Who's the child?" said Phoebe. 

"One of my household slaves" said the Senator. His voice hardened. "And one whom does not need to be here for this discussion. Olia, remove yourself. As we discussed, I want you outside the door." His voice softened, slightly, to the point where it became almost paternal. "Imagine your're a guardsman, on duty. Don't allow anyone to move you from your place."

She nodded, obediently enough, and shut the door behind her as she left. Possibly, I guessed, the bastard daughter of the Senator, born out of a tryst with one of the household slaves. I always feel slightly sorry for such, in all honesty. It's bad enough knowing that one is considered less than human for simply having the wrong parents. But being considered one despite the fact one's father is the paterfamilias - knowing that those who share half your blood are Citizens of the greatest civilisation on Earth whilst you are merely property - that must really drive home the sheer, maddening randomness of the whole system. 

Then again, most of the ones I have met tend to think of themselves as a cut above the rest of us anyway, so my sympathy tends to be limited. 

"What's her purpose?"

"Part of the familia for...must be almost eight years now. Purchased her cheap in Aztlania; more to save her from the obsidian knife than anything. For today? Well I could hardly go into the female changing rooms, so it seemed logical to use her to check you were here. And, indeed, not being followed."

"You are cautious" remarked Phoebe. "Although I'm sure you're aware that being here-"

"- yes" said the Senator. "It is rather suspicious, I might admit. But then the Baths of Sulla are known for their discretion, and one does not wantonly fritter away a reputation like that. And if anyone has seen us here, well..." his lips quirked. "I think their minds might go in somewhat carnal directions; especially when a woman as eye catching as you is involved."

"I do believe that's almost a compliment" said Phoebe, smiling. 

The Senator sniffed - although I noticed a slight quirk about the mouth. 

"I flatter myself I have many skills, and am no mean orator, but I find women a difficult audience."

"No wonder you believe we shouldn't have the vote. But aren't you concerned that people might think you're having an affair?"

The Senator barked a laugh.

"The ones who support me wholeheartedly will think it is a lie. The ones who despise me already think I commit all manner of wickedness; rumours that maybe I was in a bathhouse at some point in a quiet meeting with a woman will hardly matter to them. And most of my voters, I think, really do not overly care -assuming they ever come to hear of it. Indeed, often a slight whiff of harmless scandal endears one to the electorate. It is when you treat them as fools and tell obvious falsehoods that they turn on you. " He waved a hand. "But I believe we deviate from the matter at hand."

 

"Of course, your Excellency" said Phoebe. She glanced at me, and from my bag I withdrew several pages, typewritten, neatly stapled together - along with the letter and photographs Claudilo had given us originally. "I have prepared a report."

"Excellent. And in summary..."

"That letter is telling the truth, sir." She paused, and then added diligently. "Well, such is the balance of probability".

The Senator said nothing, but his deep sigh was all the answer we needed.

"Not the answer you were hoping for?"

The Senator sniffed. "No.  Care to explain your reasoning?"

Phoebe looked at me for a moment, as though seeking reassurance. I kept my face carefully blank.

"Briefly, sir? Every detail in that letter checks out. Jania sees fit to tell us both her name and those of her parents. She tells us the publication they worked for." She glanced at me, again. "I had Flavia here go to the Bibliothecam Caroleum. She found some archives of the paper - the Belgica Observer - and she even found some articles by them." She  smiled, grimly. "Only up to the year 2756, though."

I'd seen those articles, and my heart had sank when I read them. Jupiter Optimus Max, but they were small. Local news - provincial is too grand a word for it. Most were the lightest sort of reportage - pleasant days out for the family, a local festival described in glowing terms, an opening of some minor building by some unimportant dignitary. Even their more serious news stories - local crimes, bureaucratic incompetence, the sort of local corruption that goes on everywhere - were hardly significant. 

If they had found out, inadvertently, something about Quint, I reflected, they never stood a chance from the moment they decided to investigate. It was two gnats going up against an eagle. 

"The same year she alleges she was enslaved" muttered the Senator.

"Exactly, sir. But again, all that could be coincidence." She paused, for a moment. "Now, details of the case - if there are any - would probably not be in the archives here in Rome. Indeed, I'd put money against it. By itself, it would hardly be legally significant - and I daresay that Quint's tame jurists would have done their utmost to bury that file on the dustiest shelf in the darkest cellar in Belgica they could find. Assuming, of course, they didn't accidentally lose the whole thing a week later. Flavia had a look, but if it is in the archives of the Imperial Symposia, its buried deep" 

What she didn't mention was that my 'look' had taken three days in the legal archives at the Imperial Symposia, looking through cardboard box after cardboard box, with absolutely no success. As Phoebe had stated, after the third day had ended, I could well spend a thousand years down there, in that antique tomb of ancient Roman law, and never find the records. 

"I considered checking the servile database - that would at least show that that such a slave as Jania does exist  - but  I don't know anyone high ranking enough in the Secreteriat or Vigilium ."

That was, to put it bluntly, a lie. She did know several men with the clearances to access that database (for some reason, the list of all those legally enslaved in the People's Republic is a state secret - presumably on the overly paranoid basis that a  Republic-wide revolution would start tomorrow if us slaves knew exactly how many of us there are). The problem was such men would likely start asking why she was asking after random Belgican slaves.

"So" said the Senator, with a slight sneer "we have no actual evidence she was even enslaved - let alone that it was legally suspect."

Phoebe just grinned, widely. Everything she'd said so far was obvious, and likely the sort of thing the Senator would have been easily able to check himself. 

"Not exactly, sir. Are you aware of Shimon Ben Khita?"

"No" said the Senator, but I noticed Claudilo frown. Unobtrusively, he scribbled a note, and slid it over to the Senator, who glanced down, quickly. 

"Ah" he said, in a tone that could curdle milk. "A radical" he said, in much the same way as he might have said 'rabid dog'.

"Indeed" said Phoebe. "And he, sir, had heard of it. Indeed, he's tried to investigate it himself. He got as far as ascertaining that such a trial had taken place; and that it involved the same people Jania mentioned in her letter. Problem was, most people wouldn't talk to his investigators. And of those, one suddenly came into money and left for Antioch. One had a sudden transfer to Outer Scythia." She paused, and then concluded with "and one had a nervous breakdown and ended up hanging himself in his cell."

"Still, hardly conclusive" said the Senator, not looking terribly impressed - although Claudilo was looking somewhat shocked. Phoebe shrugged, although deep down I think she was a little taken aback by his (lack of) reaction. 

"Maybe not, sir. But I know Shimon, and he gave me what notes he had on the case. Unless somewhat is playing a very, very complex hoax on you, something very strange happened to Felix, Jania and Magrat Lepis Felicia in Belgica eleven years ago."

She slid the report over to Claudilo. The Senator, meanwhile, simply drummed his fingers on the table. 

"You have hardly found the absolute proof I was wanting - yet I do not think that is due to any lack of your efforts. I thank you, and will of course read your report thoroughly"

I am not an idiot. I knew exactly what that phrase probably meant. From Phoebe's slightly narrowed eyes, I guessed she understood it too. 

"Claudilo will of course arrange payment." He stood up, making it obvious we were dismissed.

"And, sir?" asked Phoebe.

"And?"

"What are you going to do, sir?" said Phoebe. She leaned back in her chair. "There is undeniably something exceptionally odd going on in Belgica."

"With respect-"

"With respect, sir, nothing!" She smacked her fist down on the table, making both Claudilo and myself jump. She pointed, accusingly, at that small file lying on the table. "You swore an oath to Rome Herself to uphold the law. Now, if you don't want to tell me what is happening, that's fine. But I deserve to know that you will at least do something other than read."

I admit, I cringed. Mouthing off like that to a Senator is a bad career move - even for those of us lucky enough to not be considered property.

"I will pay you-"

"I don't care about the payment- much" said Phoebe, suddenly catching herself. "Well, I do. But I didn't spend all of last night typing just to get some coins."

Claudilo cast a sympathetic glance at me, correctly divining who, in point of fact, had done the typing. And, truth be told, a lot of the wording, too, paring away my domina's more florid metaphors and wilder speculations. 

"So why did you?"

Phoebe leaned forward. "Because, sir, I actually care - yes, even about slaves. Which I realise is probably a hard concept for a Romulist like you to understand. And I don't think that anyone - no matter how wealthy, or important - should be allowed to shield themselves in lies forever. But then, of course, I'm a radical and naive, aren't I? Doubtless it isn't politically sensible, or some such excuse."

The Senator said nothing, his expression merely growing stony. I doubted, very much, he was ever spoken to like that. Oh, to be sure, likely there was the occasional heckle or jeer - but there's a distance between that and an angry Phoebe, not three metres away, telling you exactly what she thinks.

And then he smiled.

"Well then, Citizen Vestina. Fancy doing some more digging?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thermae - A large, public bath - usually, but not always, state funded. Most of them are considerably more than just a public bath, and include a gymnasium, libraries, public gardens, meeting rooms, bars and restaurants. Often the centre of a local community. Generally in the People's Republic the facilities are mixed, albeit with some separate rooms for men and women. 
> 
> Apodyterium - at its most basic, a changing room, but often including other facilities.
> 
> Tepidarium - usually the first room of the traditional 'bathing circuit'; consisting of a hot, warm shower and pool. Traditionally, one washes here before entering the rest of the baths. 
> 
> Caldarium - a room with a hot plunge pool.
> 
> Sudatorium - a very hot steam room, popular with invalids and the elderly. 
> 
> Frigidarium - a cold swimming pool, used to cool down after the Sudatorium. 
> 
> Bibliothecam Caroleum - 'Carolean Library'. Built by Carolus the Exalted and finished by his son, it is effectively Rome's central library and likely the largest in the world. 
> 
> Imperial Symposia - another one of Carolus' projects, which he heroically resisted naming after himself, and has kept the term 'Imperial' despite the end of the Empire. The largest and most important Symposia in Italia, specialising in history, politics, and law. Phoebe's father teaches here. (Antioch is more prestigious if one wishes to study philosophy and literature, whilst Eboracum is for the natural sciences, Viminacium for economics and Alexandria for mathematics and engineering).

**Author's Note:**

> Flavia and Phoebe are stolen from Mossgreen's amazing universe; and this is very much a non-canon adventure for them.


End file.
